Note to the reader: Below is a description of what I believe could be one of the most pathetic experiences possible. Mild sexual content.
At seven a.m. the alarm buzzed into existence, but Hubert was already awake, lying in bed under his sweat-soaked sheets. The wolf printed onto his bedspread gazed into the breaking day with a look of bored indifference. Hubert rose out of bed, his baggy tightie whities sliding off of his corpulent posterior as he shuffled barefoot into the bathroom. Brushing his teeth in agonizingly slow circles, Hubert's reflection never broke eye contact with him, not even to blink. He forgot to rinse the excess toothpaste out of his mouth, and a small amount remained crusted to the corners of his lips.
Despite having begun like any other, this day was going to be special. It was Hubert's twenty-fourth birthday, and he very much intended to celebrate. He pulled on a brand new undershirt, fresh from the package. He had bought it for himself as a birthday treat, and so far it was living up to his expectations. The undershirt covered up the one thing on Hubert's body which he was least ashamed of. On his twenty-first birthday, he had bought himself his first beer, and the resulting bender was enough to make him decide never to drink again. He had gone into a tattoo parlor, pointed at some flash on the wall (
Taz doing
Tweety doggy-style, underneath the words "Spice Jam"), and handed his credit card to the tattoo artist. Another in the long list of cruel things strangers had done to Hubert, the tattoo artist created a unique piece just for him. Above his left nipple there now was a hastily shaded image of an anthropomorphic pickle holding hands with a potato. They were both frowning. The tattoo artist had deemed it unnecessary to shave Hubert's left breast before inking him, so there were a number of permanently ingrown blond hairs distorting the edges of the tattoo.
On this date for the last two years, Hubert had hoped for a better birthday than that one, and today was no exception. Hubert stood in the kitchen of his very poorly lit apartment, his feet almost sticking to the old linoleum tiles on the floor. He had to stand on his toes and stretch as tall as he could in order to pull the short, rusty chain hanging from the ceiling. The room filled with the loud hum of the single fluorescent light bulb warming up. Yellow light flickered across everything in the small, reflective room, and cast a dull gray pallor on Hubert's skin.
When he was at the pharmacy buying his new undershirt, Hubert had wandered down the party supplies aisle and bought himself another treat. Matte cardboard rolled into a cone, the party hat read "Birthday Boy" and had a baseball motif. Standing in his kitchen, he pulled it onto his head, where it flattened some of the dirty blond curls that framed his pink face. Because he had awkwardly situated the hat's elastic strap under his chin, it found its way into the moist crease between a couple of smooth rolls of fat on his neck.
In anticipation of today, he had spent much of last night setting up his cooking supplies in an orderly fashion on the counter. Hubert's diabetes prevented him from being able to have too much sugar, so the cake he was going to bake himself had to be made carefully. For a few weeks he had collected Nutra-Sweet packets from outdoor restaurant tables as he walked past them. As Hubert emptied them into the large mixing bowl, the small yellow scraps of the packaging collected in a scattered pile at his feet. He continued to mix the ingredients, poured the batter into the baking pan, and set it in the oven.
Before cleaning up the kitchen, Hubert went back into his bedroom and reached underneath his mattress. He unearthed a Sears catalogue he had found as a teenager and began thumbing through the faded pages. There in the center was his favorite photograph in the entire world. The woman modeling the control-top panties and brassiere with padded shoulder straps wore her auburn hair in a shoulder-length fashion usually seen on the nightly news. There was a staple going through part of her, but Hubert didn't care because she had the friendliest, most beautiful smile he had ever seen.
Reaching into his bedside table, Hubert grabbed one of the "snug fit" prophylactics he picked up when he had his annual physical at the free clinic a few months ago. He slowly rolled it on and then walked back into the kitchen, leaving his Y-fronts laying on his bedroom floor. He was in a confused state of hunger and arousal, and so he interrupted his clandestine activity to get himself a snack. Peering into the fridge, he opened up the crisper drawer and took out a package of store-brand American cheese. He hastily unwrapped slice after slice of the yellow stuff and crumpled them into little folded balls as he shoved them into his mouth. Distractedly, his right hand found its way to his groin, where he slowly fiddled his hand along the latex-encased flesh there.
As his movements became more frenzied, sweat began pouring out of him. His energized wobbling stressed the tensile strength of the elastic strap around his face, threatening to snap at any moment. Despite the fact that he had never been raised to think so, he still became very ashamed and embarrassed when he acted or thought in an impure way. As a few large droplets of moisture fell to the plastic cheese wrappers scattered around his feet, it became evident that he was not only sweating, but tears were rolling off of his rosy cheeks. Hubert continued to feed himself with his left hand, almost hypnotized, and little crumbs of cheese fell onto his chest and stomach.
His whole body was shaking now, and underneath his now cheese- and sweat-stained new undershirt, the pickle and potato bounced along in an unhappy dance. As his excitement climaxed, his body was racked with sobs. The strain proved too much for the party hat, and the staple connecting the side of the hat to the elastic snapped off violently. Hubert instinctively ducked, but not fast enough, and the small metal bit ricocheted off of the refrigerator door and hit him just underneath his eye. Shocked and smarting from the staple, he slowly removed the used condom and placed it in the trash can. As he slowly picked up the scraps of clear plastic and yellow paper off the floor, his weeping faded. Standing pantsless and exhausted in his kitchen, he took a few ragged breaths.
The oven timer dinged, snapping Hubert out of his reverie. His cake was ready. It was not a special day. It was just another birthday.
